Widow, Soldier, Strike, Star
by everythingchanges
Summary: "I used to have nothing, and then I got this–this job, this family." That wasn't entirely true. Even when Natasha felt like she had nothing, she always had her. A series of one-shots about two sisters that occur in their multiplex definitions of home: the Red Room, S.H.I.E.L.D., and anywhere next to the man with the metal arm.
1. sestra

_Hong Kong, 2023_

Crowded. That's how Natasha Romanoff used to describe her experience shuffling through the winding streets of Hong Kong on one of her frequent visits in days gone by, not to mention humid, bustling, and brimming with a force to be reckoned with. But with billions in the universe turned to dust at the hands of Thanos five years ago, she even dared to take a red and white taxi to her destination this evening–a population of 7 million splintered in half meant there was hardly any traffic in sight. Natasha closed her eyes in the back seat, retracing the hectic events of the last two weeks as sky-high neon blurred through rainy windows, colours gliding over her tense features like a mood ring.

"_This channel is always active. So, if anything goes sideways, anyone's making trouble where they shouldn't, it comes through me," Natasha said from the office in Avengers HQ, nodding towards the holographic projections of what was left of the Avengers–if she could even call them that. As the images of Rocket, Okoye, Nebula, and Carol Danvers dissipated, she sat down at her desk in a mixture of defeat and exhaustion. _

_Raising her head to see Rhodey still on the line, she asked, "Where are you?"_

"_Mexico. The Federales found a room full of bodies–looks like a bunch of cartel guys. Never even had the chance to get their guns off."_

_She knew why he held back after the group call, but she was sick of feeling that slight twinge of wasted hope, "it's probably a rival gang."_

"_Except it isn't. It's definitely Barton," he insisted, "what he's done here, what he's been doing for the last few years–I mean, the scene that he left…I gotta tell you, there's a part of me that doesn't even want to find him."_

_Natasha's face pinched as he spoke. Casting her eyes to her lap, she felt the threat of tears stinging the backs of her eyes. Since when did she allow her emotions to get in the way? They didn't allow it in the Red Room, they didn't in S.H.I.E.L.D., either. She wondered for a split second how much she gained in her stint running with Steve and Sam, how those gains could simultaneously equal losses. In her years with Earth's mightiest heroes and her fight to keep them together emerged a new Natasha that she still didn't quite know how to deal with. _

"_Will you find out where he's going next?" _

_To distract herself, she took a bite out of her peanut butter sandwich. God, it was all so sad._

"_Nat…"_

"_Please?"_

Clint. She presumed the worst from his radio silence, until Rhodey stumbled upon the horrific scene of the slaughtered remains of an underground human trafficking cult in Albany, New York two years ago. His assessment of the assassin's technique checked off all the boxes for Clint, even if the archer swapped his arrows for blades. Since then, Rhodey was tasked with investigating similar events, but always arrived too late. As if living with the results of The Snap weren't painful enough, Natasha felt the weight of an indescribable emotion that rooted itself in her body; Clint Barton was the man who decided to spare her life and disregard her sins, and it seemed like he had taken her place.

In an attempt to push the cacophony of her thoughts to the back of her mind, Natasha opened her eyes and unlocked her phone, scrolling through a series of messages from an +852 phone number. She needed to find Clint, in an effort to get the team back and save whoever he was planning to kill next, so she took a risk and reached out to the last person on Earth she knew wanted to hear from the ex-spy. Her. When Natasha seemingly had nothing, she always had _her_. They hadn't seen each other since the Sokovia Accords ripped them apart, her last visit to Hong Kong and the shouting match with the borderline tears in that tiny, bare bones apartment. She didn't know what to say, how to repair what they had, but she wanted to so badly.

Since then she had chosen to defy the Accords and join Steve and Sam in their underground vigilantism, and failed miserably to prevent The Snap and its aftermath. Natasha lost everything in the wake of Thanos's destruction when what little she had left after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., everything she fought to keep, was wiped away that day in Wakanda. She sat speechless on the quinjet ride back to the Avengers compound, feeling the deepest terror she had ever experienced in her life. She hoped it was hidden behind her blanked-out façade, but was beyond caring whether it radiated off her body in waves and collided with the disappointment that emanated from her remaining teammates. Upon landing, she shot off two text messages, one to Clint, and one to her:

**Status ASAP – N**

A single reply came through:

**Still here. – S **

Sighing, she scrolled down to the latest messages, analyzing the bursts of words for signs that alluded to some form of truce:

**Found Him. **

**Where? **

**It's not him anymore, Tasha. **

**Please. **

**Fine. Tokyo. I have the intel. **

**Taking a quinjet in the morning. Coming to you. **

**Alone? **

**Alone. **

"Miss, we have arrived," the driver spoke gently, breaking Natasha from her reverie. She thanked him in perfect Cantonese, handing him the fare while grasping at the door handle. A slight breeze met her as she charged up to the pale pink apartment building with purpose–almost desperation–her hips losing their usual Black Widow sway. When the keypad at the glass entrance approved the numbers she punched in, she let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding and powered up the stairs. Level 3, flat 9.

With each lock that yielded to her set of keys, more weight lifted off her chest. Fingertips finally clutching the doorknob, she heard the electronic mechanism on the other side approve her prints and as she entered, she fought to suppress a premature smile. Kicking off her boots and smoothing out her khaki green jacket, her eyes flickered around, drinking in signs of welcoming: the set table, two cups next to a pot of hot tea, and wisps of fragrant steam emanating from the kitchen. The apartment was still kept minimal, two pairs of ballet slippers dangling from the coat hooks next to the door and an arrow mounted on the wall above a black piano in the sitting room as the only signs of sentiment. The familiarity enveloped her like a warm embrace. Nothing had changed; she hoped they hadn't either.

"Stell?" Before she could catch it, the habitual call escaped her lips like a hopeful prayer.

"Took you long enough," Stella emerged from the kitchen, just as she remembered: petite, tanned, jet-black hair twisted into a mid-length braid, and a voice equally as smooth as Natasha's. Resting her denim-clad hip on the door jamb to the kitchen and wiping her hands on a dishtowel, Stella's dark eyes almost sparkled at the sight of the ex-Russian spy.

Although they hailed from different parts of the world, one plucked from an orphanage in Volgograd, and the other from Guangzhou, they seemed bound to each other by a higher hand from the cosmos, one that always brought the two prized champions of the Black Widow Ops Program together again.

"Hey, I had to fly here – what's your excuse?" Natasha tried her luck, her lip twitching up ever so slightly while she flicked her red-to-blonde ombre locks over her shoulder.

"Well, when half your contacts crumble to dust, leads don't come as quickly anymore," smirk reciprocated.

In a habit from days gone by, the two former spies scanned each other for signs of any visible injury. While appearing fit and forever young–a trait ensured by the Soviets–the pair carried an air of deep exhaustion, an inherent mentality that plagued those with onus, who had seen and done too much. Natasha noted the taut muscle Stella retained and pushed away the urge to interrogate her on her activities in the time they spent apart. Stella noticed Natasha's usually sharp features were even sharper, a sign that she hadn't been sleeping well or eating properly for a while. When they finally met each other's gaze, their expressions eased; whatever internal damage was done was in the past. What came next weighed heavily on both their minds–words they were never allowed to say: _I missed you. I'm happy to see you. I'm glad you're okay._

"Stell–"

"I found him," Stella gestured to the unlabelled dossier on the table, thick with evidence, "he's been touring through Japan this last week chasing Yakuza. Last seen in Tokyo two days ago–Shinjuku. Goes by _Ronan_ now apparently," she sighed, shaking her head, "Tasha, he's doing this all in plain sight."

"Have you tried intercepting him?" the redhead sat at the table, switching to mission mode and opening the folder to reveal images of Clint's latest victims.

"Why, so he can kill me too?"

Natasha shot her a look. Right. They both had red in their ledgers, but only one of them attempted to wipe hers out. She pressed on nonetheless, "don't you think we owe it to him to try?"

"And then what?" Stella asked only to meet silence, "are you going to tell me what you're trying to achieve here?"

Natasha broke out of her long pause, swallowing the building tension in the air, "we might have found a way. To reverse it, to bring everyone back."

"сестра–" _Sister._

"No, hear me out. We can bring everyone back, we just need more hands on deck, Clint included – _you_ included."

Natasha's heart was pounding. It wasn't only their initial reunion that she was anxious about, it was the question of whether Stella would follow her back to New York that made her palms sweat. She didn't know what to expect from their meeting; during the jet ride her analytic mind calculated every possible encounter they could've had: a warm reception, a cold rejection, a negotiation, a failed guilt trip, even a fist fight—but all those scenarios didn't involve dropping the time travel bomb so quickly into the evening.

In her heart of hearts, getting her best friends back wasn't solely about saving the world or sparing future victims. She couldn't deny anymore how much of a mess she really was; her mental state continued to decrescendo, visible for everyone to see, even if they were too polite to say anything. During the first two years post-Snap, her and Steve's war criminal statuses had been retconned and they busied themselves, consulting with the U.S. government to rebuild American intelligence apparatuses after half their employees disintegrated into dust. She acted as head of the Avengers, tracking Earth-bound and interplanetary threats, but after those first years, activity dropped significantly and only Carol had been busy, while the others kept coming back with reports of earthquakes under the ocean and high-speed garbage vessel chases in outer space. A small part of her was curious as to whether the team's investigations and monthly calls back to HQ were only for her benefit, to entertain a woman who used to have a purpose and now went back to having nothing.

Being in S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers, helping to protect the world was the driving force of a changed Natasha. So she kept pushing herself to keep the team together, to do good, to keep being better. But soon after they arrived home from Wakanda, Tony and Thor severed themselves from the group, then Bruce, and now Steve insisted that she move on, that the work they were doing didn't need to be done. What could she move on to, with her best friends and her purpose gone? How could she claim she did good, when everything she worked so hard for ended up being for nothing? It stung even more knowing that Clint and Stella were out there, carrying on without her. It felt as though her life was crumbling apart at the edges of the immense void that she desperately yearned for them to occupy.

But as if someone beyond the stratosphere answered her wishes, the team found new hope after the re-emergence of Scott Lang, who brought a revelation, setting off a chain of events that convinced Tony and Bruce to come back. Did she believe in time travel? Scott's time in the Quantum Realm was living proof that it existed in some form, and the biggest scientific brains in the gang were getting closer to refining it. They needed to assemble the Avengers, and while Bruce and Rocket planned to make the trek to Norway to retrieve a reluctant Thor, she heard from Stella. If Tony, Bruce, and Thor agreed to return, then maybe she could resurrect STRIKE Team Delta too.

For a brief moment the brunette turned to stone at the proposition before sitting at the table and running a hand over her face, "I told you ten years ago, Tasha, I'm not joining _your_ _Avengers_. It still stands."

It was true. The Battle of New York sparked an awakening in Natasha, helping her recognize that her very particular skill set could be put to something more. But that meant a shift in how things worked at S.H.I.E.L.D. for her, namely _who_ she worked with; and in an unspoken attempt to keep her family together, she relentlessly tried to convince her sister of the benefits of her new team to no avail. In the multiple times Stella brushed off the request, she all but said what she really felt: _I don't care about saving the world, I only care about you_.

The blunt rejection was like a blow to the chest. If Natasha were anyone else–a normal person maybe–she would have flinched in embarrassment, but she sat still, brain trying to both devise a new way to make the request again and halt the shuddered breath that threatened to rise out of her chest. Didn't Stella realize, she thought, that she was being asked for _more_?

"You don't have to. Please, sis," Natasha leant over, extending her hand across the table; her voice wavering. Unable to look Stella in the eye, her gaze lingered on the familiar tiny platinum star necklace that permanently resided on her sister's chest, "_please just come back with me_."

Stella's brow furrowed, examining the face she grew up coming home to–one that was unfailingly stoic, brave, that dared adversaries with the minutest of motions, but now she was looking at someone different. The two were trained to live lives devoid of personal meaning, whose sole objectives were to exist unnoticed, advancing no further than to fight in the name of a country that would never love them back. She could argue that the same occurred after they defected from bright red to stars and stripes, but she knew they would disagree on that now; she could tell by the way her sister's eyes so easily welled with tears. It was only after the Avengers, she noted, did Natasha allow herself to believe that anything outside of _them_ really mattered.

"Well," the brunette's tone softened as she gently trailed her fingers over her sister's wrist, the feel of familiar skin blooming a warmth in her chest, "I made dinner. Can we eat before we leave?"

* * *

A/N: If you made it to the end of this chapter, thank you for reading! This fic will be comprised of a series of one-shots that take place throughout time, focussing on Natasha Romanoff and those in her immediate circle. This is intended to be more of a character study of Natasha and her significance to the others, rather than a story with a linear narrative/plot. Feel free to leave a review if you'd like, and if you have any longer constructive feedback, you are welcome to DM me. I am looking for a beta reader to work with on this story, if anyone is interested please reach out. All the best!


	2. morning star

A/N: Warning for graphic depictions of violence. I also wanted to note that I read several BW comics in preparation for this chapter to better understand what was going on in the Red Room, so if you've read those you'll see some elements in here.

* * *

_The Red Room Academy, Moscow, 1988_

"This should be enough," the blonde woman hummed approvingly, standing between thick wood pillars at the base of a grand staircase. Constricted by her form fitting deep green blazer, her arms folded over her long skirt in a perfect V formation, "you ladies did well, collecting all these girls," she said, addressing her comrades present in the room.

"Thank you, Madame B," the women bowed their heads in unison.

Two months ago, the Russian military commander had been granted a high honour by the top tier of Department X: to create a new branch of their esteemed female training program that aimed to strengthen the intelligence force of the Soviet Union. After their loss in the Second World War, their intelligence agencies ceased to rest, working relentlessly to plant sleeper agents in every major capital city of the world over the last 40 years. Now it was time to pervade opponents with an advanced breed of spy.

Once she had been given her task she sent her team throughout the Soviet Union and China, raiding orphanages and taking those who showed promise. The product of those journeys was a set of 28 little girls formed in rows before them, awkwardly shuffling their tiny feet along the scarlet carpet that lined the monumental foyer of the Red Room Academy. Warmly illuminated by the incandescent lights, the girls appeared bathed and groomed, all donning identical navy pinafore dresses overtop light collared shirts, black shoes and braided ponytails.

"Girls," she began, as her comrades began speaking along with her in various languages, translating her greeting, "welcome to the Academy. You are all very lucky that we have chosen you to be a part of our family," she smiled tenderly.

Her hips swayed confidently as she stepped closer to them–a motion that, unbeknownst to them, would be adopted by all who survived to the end of their time there. Eyes scanning each row, she studied the faces of every one of her new recruits, their features etched with fear and uncertainty. They all shared an air of resignation; none of them had anyone who would be searching for them, and they knew it. There was so much potential–it pleased her to no end.

"Do they have names?" she turned to one of her comrades.

"Some of them do, Madame B."

"We'll start with her," she demanded, gesturing towards a cherubic redhead with a delicately pointed chin and luminous green eyes.

"Natalia Alianova Romanova. She was delivered to us by a soldier who claims he found her in Volgograd. Her origins are...very unclear. "

"Perfect."

They moved swiftly down the rows, with Madame B's comrades stating names and origins as much as their tome of stolen paperwork could provide. The more information missing, the more the commander's excitement sizzled. Blank slates meant they could create the ideal shapeshifter, agile apex predators with knowledge of the world's diplomatic structures that they would eventually burn to the ground.

When they arrived at the end of the line, the matriarch's bubble burst and she bristled briefly at the battered state of the final child.

"Her name is Li San Sing."

The tiny figure pointed her round face up at the adults examining her, hands fidgeting behind her back. Upon closer inspection, bruises could be seen under her left eye and littered down her arms. Madame B gently stroked the girl's plump cheek with the backs of her fingers, "_morning star_. Beautiful name."

"She was given an English name," her comrade commented, flipping through the paperwork, "Stella. The orphanage hoped she would be adopted by an American family."

"She doesn't fit the parameters I gave you–she's puny."

"Yes, but she is a defiant child. All the others ran off hiding as we stormed the facility, but she stayed in her place."

"Defiant, maybe," the commander replied skeptically, "or she is acclimatized to being afraid. Did the other orphans do this to you?" She turned over the girl's arms to inspect the bruises.

"She says yes."

Madame B pondered for a moment before looking back down at the child.

"Once we're finished with you, no one will do this to you ever again."

* * *

_1996_

"_Again, Natasha. One and–"_

"_Wait, Master Sterelny," Natasha huffed over the orchestral music, hands raised towards the bun her hair, "I need to readjust my pin."_

"_Hurry up, then. Now, one and two and..." _

_Piqué, arabesque, piqué, arabesque, piqué. The redhead glided across the rehearsal studio, her black wrap skirt fluttering in her self-made breeze. Around the room she went, occasionally glancing at herself in the mirrors and flashing a satisfied grin._

"_Again. Two more minutes." _

"Sterenly," Madame B's stern voice filled the room through the ajar door, "is the serum still taking effect?" she asked.

He grunted an affirmative, "45 minutes strong, but I expect it to begin wearing off soon."

Pushing the door open, the matriarch entered the small doctor's surgery, the walls an off white hue with a few standard medical tools hung along the walls. Sitting in the corner was her colleague, holding a stopwatch and observing the chair adjacent to him where a 12-year old Natasha sat, eyes open, ensnared in a waking dream.

She shifted her attention to the single ballerina piqué-ing across the television stationed in front of the girl. "Excellent. When it is done leave her here until evening meal. Meet me for a debrief in my office in two hours."

She returned to the hallway and exited through a pair of double doors into a small courtyard lined with grey stone columns and perfectly planted trees. Awaiting her were 14 girls from the cohort standing in a circle wearing identical white uniforms. As part of their training, once a day half the Widows were selected to engage in hand-to-hand combat, monitored by the matriarch. After years of combat exercises today's group proved particularly strong, with the smallest girl, Stella, surprisingly displaying a mixture of aggression, agility and forethought into her moves.

After deeming the first round a success, Madame B decided that she would begin the next level of training today.

"Ok, we will go again. Stella and Tatyana, take your positions."

Stella glanced across the circle at her contemporary, the lanky strawberry blonde who she saw everyday in the dining hall and during classes. She and Tatyana used to tolerate one another, but their relationship soured when the two were often pitted against together during these training sessions. With Tatyana being the tallest of the cohort and Stella the shortest, their constant pairing was much to Stella's chagrin; perhaps it was the insecurity about her petite stature that led to Tatyana winning every time.

The fight began as usual, with Stella wrestling with the blonde, Tatyana's long outstretched arms forcing the crown of her head down, obstructing her ability to see and causing her to struggle to make her next move. Feet planted to the ground, she tried using her body to push back to no avail, then resorted to trying to pry the fingers off her head.

"I win again," Tatyana sneered, eliciting a few giggles from the circle before they were shushed.

Stella growled in frustration. As she jostled her head left and right, her memory reminded her of the aftermath of the last time she found herself in the same predicament.

_Wind spun around Stella's tiny figure like a tornado as she sat in the middle of the courtyard with her head between her propped knees. The air was frigid but she didn't care – her mind was occupied by another loss. Minutes had passed since Tatyana bested her again and the girls were dismissed. She knew she didn't stand a chance of winning, but it didn't help that the rest of them acted superior to her when she failed. Most of the Widows had gone back inside for lunch, save for one person, whose presence she felt alongside her on the concrete. _

"_Are you crying?" Natasha was right next to her ear. _

"_No," she said through gritted teeth. _

"_Come on, everyone has left," the redhead pried her arm from around her leg but she snatched it back. _

"_Stop trying to help me."_

"_I'll always help you," Natasha replied, resting her head on the brunette's shoulder, "we're sisters." _

_Stella poked her head up just high enough to peer over, "we're not really sisters, though." _

_Natasha stood up and sighed, "please let me help you? I'm sure you're embarrassed everytime you lose, otherwise you wouldn't be here crying. Let me at least show you what I think you should do next time the giant grabs your head." _

Using both hands, Stella gripped Tatyana's wrists, swinging on her taut arms like a set of monkey bars, and slid along the concrete, knocking the girl's legs out from under her. Somersaulting backwards, Stella pushed her back down on the ground and straddled her upper body, knees atop her arms, and delivered punch after punch until Tatyana found the strength to kick herself up, knocking Stella over. Quick to recover, she grabbed the back of Tatyana's shirt with her bloodied hand, pulling them back down together and wrapping both arms around the blonde's head with as much pressure as she could muster.

This moment had to be it, the impasse where the match would be put to a halt before survival instincts kicked in. Stella locked eyes with Madame B, waiting for the ceasefire signal.

Instead, the matriarch moved her arms in a cradling motion.

Mimicking the action, Stella twisted her body with a heave of her shoulders, feeling the crunch of bone shifting in the crook of her elbow. The combined sensations knocked the air from her lungs, eliciting a wheeze as she fell backwards onto the ground, her soft stomach the final resting place of her fellow Widow. Sonic tones blasted through her ears from an adrenaline rush that seemed eager to stay coursing through her veins. She sensed the presence of two adults approaching them, hunching over Tatyana before carrying her away. Eyes rolling around the courtyard, she saw the remaining girls still sitting around the ring, but their bodies recoiled from her, horror splashed over their faces.

"Tatyana is the first one to go," Madame B finally piped up, "and I'm sorry to say this girls, but there will be more of you. It may be by chance, a wrong move, or your opponent may be superior to you in strength and wit," the energy in the courtyard stirred as the girls looked to one another, unsettled, "but this is what we're preparing you for. You are all dismissed. Wash up for supper."

The floor rumbled from the footsteps exiting the courtyard, the tremors of which rattled Stella's bones. She was unaware of how much time had lapsed while she lay there on the cement, but it couldn't have been long because the matriarch hadn't gone back inside, instead gingerly walking over to the girl and crouching over, curiously gazing down like she was observing a rat in a lab experiment.

"The more you do it, the more it will feel like a game," the woman's voice was severely muffled by the ringing in Stella's ears, "this is how we _win_, Stella," her hand faintly touched the girl's face, "вставать." _Get up_.

/

The evening meal bell rang shrilly, breaking Stella from her waking nightmare as she lay in bed, alone in the shared sleeping quarters. She lethargically rolled over, her legs like rocks falling onto the wood floor, the rest of her body following. Knowing she would be punished for wearing a blood-speckled shirt to dinner, she sluggishly changed into an identical white shirt in the bathroom before trudging out into the hallway.

Entering the dining room, she took a tray and joined the queue. She detected the presence of the other Widows around her, but was distracted by the sensation of the metal prodding the crooks of her elbow and how it reminded her of the whole bone and flesh that was clamped there not an hour ago. She felt the usual weight of a bowl of clear broth and a chunk of bread being placed on her tray and she turned her attention to finding a place to sit. Staring blankly around the room, her brain barely registered the other girls' faces, but she felt a twist of agitation whenever anyone from this afternoon's session eyed her from afar. Scanning the room further, her gaze rested on one of the tables that hadn't filled up yet, occupied by a single redhead. That's when she decided she didn't want to sit with anyone from today's match, and made a b-line for the table, not caring to regard the grunts and glares she received when she bumped shoulders with anyone along the way. She sat down directly in front of Natasha, and much to her displeasure, a few other Widows joined them, preoccupied by their meals.

The dining room was meant to be silent; the girls knew to stay quiet and eat, but they would all test the waters, whispering to one another when a chair was dragged across the wooden floor or a tray clanged against a table.

Natasha looked up from her bowl as Stella sat and her face lit up at the sight of the brunette. "I had a private lesson at the Bolshoi," she whispered, her lips barely moving, "the instructor, Master Sterenly said I have a bright future."

Stella stared across the table blankly, a barely-there sensation tingling in her chest. She wondered what Natasha had done to be rewarded a ballet class, while she was forced to do what she she simply born bad? Maybe it was meant to be; the burn of anger that permanently resided in her heart must have been visible to Madame B all this time.

Instead of returning Natasha's glittering eyes with a response, she picked up her bowl and sipped on the broth, the cold liquid bringing no relief as it squeezed around the imaginary rock that had grown in her stomach. She placed the bowl back on the tray before pushing the entire thing away.

Natasha looked down at the untouched bread and half sipped broth, "you should eat that."

"I'm not hungry."

Green eyes darting around, the redhead caught the expressions of the five other girls at the table–a mix of skittishness and judgement directed at the brunette.

"What hap—"

She was cut off by the chiming of the bell that ended dinner. In unison, all the girls stood from their chairs and lined themselves up to be escorted from the dining hall to the showers. Stella could feel Natasha's eyes boring into the back of her head and the occasional graze of her wrist, but she didn't dare look back.

Sleep eluded Stella that evening, her memories of that afternoon taking place of what little dreams she had already. She whimpered and turned incessantly, jangling the handcuffs that held her in place against the metal bed frame. Tatyana's pale face was invisible to her that afternoon before she snapped her neck, but in the dream she could see the kill head on. The blonde's eyes were wide and her mouth was gaping. Tears were spilling down her cheeks, yes, Stella could feel the wetness on her forearm, the droplets cascading off her skin by the force of Tatyana's breath. Then she felt water on her face. Was it raining and she hadn't noticed?

She jolted awake. Blinking her eyes, hot droplets dripped down her face and neck. She whimpered in an uncontrollable act of self pity.

"Are you crying?" a tiny voice whispered from her left. Natasha was always a light sleeper.

"No," she responded weakly, free arm wiping her face with the sleeve of her white nightgown.

Natasha rolled over, handcuffs slipping down, allowing her to lay at the very edge of the bed, "next time, you go to the Bolshoi. Whatever you had to do today – I'll do it in your place, ok? Stella?"

Met with silence, she extended her left leg as far as she could, her foot rubbing against her sister's calf, where it would remain until morning.


	3. ghost story, pt I

A/N: Warning for graphic depictions of violence.

* * *

_Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, Washington DC, 2014_

"I know who killed Fury."

Natasha looked up at Steve Rogers, eyes wide and calculating, backed between his solid form and the wall of the hospital waiting room, "most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists, the ones that do call him the Winter Soldier. He's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years."

"So he's a ghost story," Steve pushed further.

"Five years ago I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. Somebody shot out my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out, but the Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer, so he shot him—straight through me," she lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing a deep scar on the left side of her stomach, "Soviet slug, no rifling. Bye-bye bikinis," she continued to deal out half-truths, eyes flickering back and forth over Steve's stern mask, trying to suss out whether he trusted her or not.

In another time, Steve would have been flustered at the sight, but times were changing quick, "yeah, I bet you look terrible in them now."

"Going after him is a dead end–I know,I've tried. Like you said, he's a ghost story," she held out Fury's flash drive that she fished out of the vending machine. Why did _Steve_ have it? Why did Fury trust him over her? Her whole being stung with jealousy, confusion, and grief over the fact that she would never get the answers. The people from her past had released their greatest weapon and Fury was dead. As she bought time with Steve, she was losing time to make a personal call, one she made anytime the ghost re-emerged: _The Soldier is back._ _Go dark. You might be his next mission_.

* * *

_The Red Room Academy, Moscow, 2001_

"Strike me harder," Stella hissed.

"I'm _not_ going to hit you harder," Natasha grunted, dodging the brunette's swipe and knocking away the Kizlyar blade pointed in her direction before dropping her own and raising her forearms.

"I," _punch_, "am," _punch_, "the," _punch_, "enemy."

"The enemy usually doesn't talk this much."

Natasha caught the last oncoming punch, twisting Stella's arm with the intention of flipping her on her back, but the brunette used the momentum to cartwheel and pull them to the ground. Bouncing back up immediately, Stella ran for her knife, which Natasha kicked away, and they went back into the match bare handed. They deflected each other's blows with such grace that without weapons, in another setting, they could have been mistaken for dance partners.

Natasha pulled on Stella's waistband, bringing her closer and serving an uppercut while swiftly kicking behind her knees, tackling the brunette to the ground. With Stella in a chokehold, she made eye contact with Madame B standing at the edge of the room, awaiting permission for the dreaded final snap. After years of hand-to-hand combat with the other girls, she knew this is what she had to do, that in the real world it was kill or be killed, but she had a strange feeling weighing on her chest that constricted her ability to breathe, and the sensation grew heavier as Stella's fingers tenderly glided over her arm and rested over her hand. Permission to kill never came, and Stella found her footing, catapulting herself up and releasing the hold over her face, slamming her head backwards causing Natasha to stumble away.

Watching the scene beside Madame B was 68-year old geneticist, Dr. Lyudmila Kudrin, whose dull grey eyes followed the girls with the utmost intrigue.

"When you said there might be two girls, I thought you were getting sentimental in your old age," the doctor muttered, garnering a side-eyed glare, "but now, I see."

"_All_ my girls are fabulous. They fight with grace and kill without hesitation," the matriarch rebutted sharply, "these two, however, have scored the top marks. They are made of marble."

"Well, if you don't stop them, they might just kill each other now."

Madame B rolled her eyes and called the fight to a halt. Both Widows immediately jumped apart, grabbing towels and patting at their sweaty faces. Looking across the room, Natasha caught Stella's gaze, shooting an inquisitive look that was met with a swift reassuring nod. The redhead vigorously rubbed her new fringe that she deeply regretted asking for, the curtain of hair creating a distinct sweat zone that she had already wiped several times that day.

"_Don't move," Stella said from her position on the bathroom countertop, "I have to get it straight." _

"_Why do I have to stand?" Natasha grumbled, stood between her sister's legs, fists knuckling the edges of the counter._

"_You are taller than me," she replied matter-of-factly, grabbing a segment of auburn hair and brushing it forwards over Natasha's visage, switchblade in her right hand, "now hold still. It's going to look great unless you move." _

_Instant bangs in one swift motion. The redhead stepped back and assessed her new hairdo in the mirror, "perfectly straight." _

_Stella grinned proudly and flicked her switchblade closed, "a new Natasha for the graduation ceremony."_

_A comfortable silence took over the pair as they cleaned up, discarding the hair and wiping down the counters._

"_сестра," Natasha whispered, "the ceremony...do you think it will hurt?"_

"_Yes," the response was immediate and hollow, "everything here hurts."_

The week before, the surviving cohort of Black Widows had been told they were closer to the graduation ceremony, two words that as of yet meant nothing to them. Whispers fluttered around the Academy; some of the girls caught a glimpse of machines and tools being carted into the infirmary, some heard there was a doctor coming who would transform them from teenagers into women. But what caused the most flurry was the prospect of being sent on missions and seeing the outside world. They had spent years studying different societies and languages, learning how they could transform themselves to fit in, become different people altogether, and take what they needed to make their country stronger, to uphold peace and prosperity.

The young women were then subjected to a series of mental and physical tests: how long they could endure the pain of torture and solitary confinement, how fast they could take out targets—inanimate _and _living—with zero hesitation, and they continued to fight one another both hand-to-hand and with weapons, with a few girls not making it at the final hurdle.

Throughout all this, Natasha and Stella performed stellarly, cementing their already glowing reputations within the Academy. They aced every challenge, every written and oral language test, and every roleplay scenario. Natasha showed supreme dexterity, acting abilities and hacking skills, and Stella proved she was precise and unfeeling in the act of killing. The two women embodied the Black Widow Ops Program, and through their achievements pledged an unspoken allegiance to the Red Room and Department X. Their position within the cohort only brought a single benefit–they were the first to move into their own private sleeping quarters, otherwise they were given harder tests that pushed them to the limits of their forced inhumanity.

"There will be one more test," Madame B gestured to the doorway.

Two men entered, fresh from the snow. The first was a tall blonde officer, clean cut, donning a long black coat with HYDRA insignia on its wide lapels. The other was a man with broad-built shoulders and long dark hair that framed the predatory expression on his face. His all-black ballistic gear accentuated the brilliance of his left arm which was encased in geometric metal and branded with a single red star.

Both Widows discarded their water bottles and towels, expressions sharpening and shoulders fearlessly squaring off as they approached the newcomers.

"These are our colleagues from HYDRA's Siberian facility–Officer Novikov and the Soldier," she continued, "hand-to-hand combat with the Soldier. Strictly no weapons."

The Soldier stalked forward, seemingly seeing through the two women as if his brain was already processing the fight 5 steps ahead. The two Widows backed away and split apart, one moving to his front and the other stationing herself behind him; then they both leapt forward and the fight began.

Madame B's eyes moved between Officer Novikov at the doorway back to the fight. "HYDRA has asked for one of them to go with the Soldier," she said quietly to Dr. Kudrin, "It's not a command I wish to obey. The distractions that could arise...are a risk."

"My biotechnology is flawless. Their cells will regenerate at a rapid pace–any foreign body will be considered a parasite and terminated. The girls won't have to regard wounds, exhaustion, illness," the doctor crossed her arms over her torso, "_motherhood_, if that is your concern. Why worry over those who will no longer have weakness?"

"It's not _them_ I'm worried about."

With each blow, Natasha and Stella alternated positions on each side of their opponent, but his abilities were far better tuned, and he was able to block their simultaneous attacks from all angles. Natasha jumped, seemingly making a move for his head, but twisted her body at the last minute, arms locking around his neck as she twirled around him. Taking advantage of the moment of destabilization, Stella hopped to his front and delivered varying patterns of punches and kicks, her mind's eye designing her next sequence of moves for when he escaped her sister's chokehold.

Whatever thoughts she had dissipated in a sudden gasp as the Soldier broke free and in a flash her throat was encased by metal, his iridescent bicep flexing as he lifted her into the air like a ragdoll, disregarding her hands scratching at his wrists and her legs flailing and colliding with his armour-clad torso.

The others watched intently as he backed their protegé into the wall, her white uniform contrasting against the worn terracotta wallpaper. Upon contact with the hard surface, she clasped her ankles around his lower back.

"Do it," she choked out, lips twitching into a tender smile, "_do it_."

A millisecond of confusion spread over the Soldier's face at her sudden shift in demeanor, and the way her shallow breaths brought a strange relief to his sweaty brow. He removed his left hand from her neck, and in the blink of an eye replaced it with his right, eliciting further gasps and gurgles. As he pulled his metal arm back to deliver the final blow, he was yanked away by his hair and Stella crashed onto the floorboards, fighting for oxygen and blinking out the constellations in her eyes.

Using the momentum of her pull, Natasha swung up to wrap her thighs around his neck, leveraging both her weight and force to bring him to the ground. Upon releasing him, she somersaulted away and assumed a crouching position, fists up. The Soldier bounced back on his feet, immediately launching himself at her, fists flying in full punches and short jabs, all of which she blocked until he was able to finally grab hold of her wrist, turning her around and placing her in a headlock.

Natasha feigned resistance; like her sister she knew if it ended then and there, it wouldn't matter. Her mind mapped out every move out of his grip, but she ignored her survival instincts and waited for either Madame B's call to cease or for him to snap her neck, however the pressure around her neck suddenly released, and she flopped forward. Twisting immediately, she saw the Soldier remained crouched down, arms up. Behind him was Stella, gripping the collar of his ballistic vest, pulling him into a tiny black push dagger she held to the base of his skull. His eyes flickered left and right, calculating, about to continue the fight if the young woman's cheating wasn't called out.

"_Stop_," Madame B roared, loud and stern, yet not expressing any level of surprise, "Stella, you went against my word."

The brunette dropped her weapon, knowing better than to respond. The Soldier turned around, glaring at the young woman who returned the gesture, black and blue interlocked until the matriarch came over and struck her across the face.

"Sloppy–both of you. Pretending to fail," she reprimanded both Widows harshly, bending over and holding Natasha's weary gaze, "the ceremony is necessary for you to take your place in the world."

"We have no place in the world."

"Exactly," she turned to the doctor, "put the rest of the girls through the procedure first. I want to make sure it works before we do it on them."

* * *

_Hong Kong, 2014_

Natasha's phone buzzed again and she groaned from her place on Stella's couch, where she had spent the better part of the day horizontal. Her phone had been vibrating for the last 24 hours – her long and convoluted conversation with Clint Barton pretty much continuing nonstop since she was issued a new top of the line (and highly secure) Stark Industries mobile device after hers was unfortunately blown up in her recent run-in with the Winter Soldier. At twilight, she had to tell the archer not to panic at the absence of her responses, but she desperately needed to go to bed. Now it was early afternoon and her thumbs were _actually_ getting sore.

"Oh my god," Stella grumbled nearby, "please tell Clint to shut up – I can't concentrate. Why won't he just call?"

Natasha turned her head to look behind her, lips pressing into a small smile. Her fellow former Black Widow was sitting at the dining table, consumed by the contents on her tablet, or so she thought.

"He said if he did, Laura would grab the phone and interrogate me as to why you and I aren't with them at the farmhouse."

Her response elicited Stella's usual miffed diatribe about how the apartment was safe enough–_beyond_ safe–and she let out a satisfied sigh while nestling herself back into the couch cushions. After her time from HYDRA hell and back, being in Hong Kong with her sister was a much deserved repose. She allowed her eyes to flutter closed for a second but snapped them back open, remembering that the self-induced darkness was a cue for her brain to replay the events of the last few days, bringing up very non-Black Widow emotions to the surface–something she tried tooth and nail to manage, especially after her display upon arrival yesterday afternoon hours after her Congress hearing.

"_Stell?" Natasha called out, slamming the door shut and tossing her keys into the dish on the adjacent side table, "it's me." _

_Hearing the series of high-security locks automatically click shut, she began feeling the effects of several week's worth of adrenaline suddenly leaving her nervous system. She slumped against the door, one hand unbuttoning her leather blazer, and the other letting her backpack slide onto the floor. Hearing the glugging of water and the clinking of porcelain, Stella appeared before her – a sight for her truly sore eyes. _

"_Tasha," Stella set down the teaware, eyes assessing her sister's state, "are you okay?"_

_Natasha rolled her head to the side, back still firmly against the door, "they're not gonna send me to a supermax."_

"_That's not what I asked."_

_That was it. At the five words softly uttered from her sister's lips, Natasha realized how muddled with information her brain was, how overwhelmed she felt from the sudden revelations and the changes she had to face in such a short time span. Her lips pursed and she let go, body heaving with sobs. She tried to cover her face, but her hand was swatted away as Stella enveloped her. _

"_Oh, сестра."_

This week had been Natasha's own personal Doomsday. In order to stop HYDRA's infiltration of both S.H.I.E.L.D. and the World Security Council, she, Steve, Fury, and Maria Hill agreed to execute the encrypted info dump, revealing not only S.H.I.E.L.D.'s decades of secrets, but also those of HYDRA's and their covert plot for Project: Insight, saving 20 million lives but devastating a major United States intelligence apparatus. For that someone had to answer to Congress, and they wanted that person to be Captain America, so she offered herself; but whether it was her just as Natasha, Black Widow of the Avengers, or super spy from Russia was undetermined. She always believed truth was a matter of circumstance, that she could bend and mold to whoever needed to be captivated by their desired version of the truth, but with all her covers blown, she had lost all her baselines for transfiguration.

She was just strong enough to keep her cool façade throughout the entire ordeal, whether it be from adrenaline or to keep up team morale she wasn't entirely sure, but inside her mind a storm was breaking out, anxiety like rain clouds dripping regret and paranoia down her spine and filling her lungs. S.H.I.E.L.D. was the foundation of the new life she had built for herself, the life on the right trackthat she brought her only family into. She fought for them, told lies for them, stole and killed, all in the name of protecting the people, and it was grating on her that those actions were partially for HYDRA. She wanted to pick apart every memory of every mission she had over the last six years and decipher who she was answering to, but she knew it would drive her insane.

It was a complete mind bend that she wasn't ready for, and matters were made worse at the reappearance of the Winter Soldier. Steve called him a ghost story–what he didn't know was that the HYDRA assassin was a ghost in more ways than one.

Pulling a favour from one of her old KGB contacts, Natasha retrieved a massive dossier on the Winter Soldier as a gesture of thanks to Steve for saving her life, kickstarting his and Sam's search for the ghost. If he wasn't at-large, she wouldn't have looked, but his re-emergence always reignited a special brand of terror reserved only for him: the fear that he would go looking for her and her sister. Whether it would be a mission ordered by HYDRA, the Russians, or one of his own fruition, she was unsure which was scarier. After reading 50 years worth of reports in a single night she packed a bag, handed off the intel to Steve at Arlington Cemetery after the hearing, and asked Fury to drop her off in Hong Kong.

The events of the last few weeks had exhausted her, and her mental defences were weakened. The entire ride to Asia she stewed on the newest revelation that the Winter Soldier was actually James Buchanan Barnes, Steve's old best friend from Brooklyn who was deemed killed in action in WWII, which mixed and melded with her bitter memories of him; his calculated brutality, the whirring of his metal arm, the tense sleepless nights he elicited every time he led her sister away from her to God knows where.

Her phone buzzed three consecutive times and she looked down at Clint's messages that by then had spun into general hilarity, "Clint says Laura has a similar speech about their home security, sis. You're in for it the next time you see her."

"Speaking of that lovely, spacious home that's _not_ 16 hours away from D.C.," the petite brunette walked over to the couch, lifting Natasha's legs before sitting down and placing them in her lap, "something tells me you didn't come here only because you broke all your covers."

"Ever the perceptive one," Natasha said playfully, cocking a perfect eyebrow, "Since I couldn't call...I wanted to check on you, to make sure _he_ didn't come here looking for you."

"The Winter Soldier?" the question was affirmed with a hum, "I'm sure he's forgotten both of us by now. If he ever comes here, it'll only be to eliminate me."

Natasha bristled at her sister's nonchalance, "don't say that."

"Why not? It's the truth."

"Seeing him again, fighting him under-armed when he was out of his goddamn mind..." she propped herself up on her forearms, "I never liked that they made you go with him. Why weren't you ever afraid for your life?"

Stella gave her a pointed look.

"You _know_ why."

The redhead flopped back down, letting her sister's final words hang in the humid air, their eardrums beating only against Hong Kong's busy soundscape and the harsh buzzes of Clint's sporadic texts.


End file.
